


It Is Written

by habibinasir (lulu_kitty)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulu_kitty/pseuds/habibinasir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>canon soulmate au ficlet // Sometimes the tattoos were words, other times they were mere symbols or pictures. There was no limit to how the Gods chose to enlighten you to your soulmate's identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Is Written

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr prompt by @dark-alice-lilith, I went with canon au verse and decided to play with the ‘name of your soulmate tattoo’ trope because I was intrigued about how that would work. Unbeta’ed.
> 
> Warnings: some canon unpleasantness, all implied, nothing graphic. But references to character death and non-con, nonetheless.

Agron sat back surveying villa, unable to take to dreams once again. Something about this place set his teeth on edge. He had convinced himself he stayed awake to keep watchful eye on Spartacus’s door, should little houseslave once again make attempt on his life. Although, that was not true, he knew that the boy would not. From their stilted conversation, Agron could tell that, while he was a stubborn little shit, he was no fool. He would come around if he had any fucking sense.

He sighed, ignoring Donar’s snoring at his side as he ran his fingers across the faded black ink on the skin of his right wrist. It was a habit he had had since as long as he remembered, since he was but a boy. It had been paining him as of late, as if his soulmate could sense his despair and was responding with his own. The pain in his arm echoing the pain in his heart.

It was worse today than it had been in a long while, not since that night he jerked awake screaming, his mother and brother unable to comfort him, the pain in his arm so immense. He remembered shaking in his mother’s arms, Duro crying helpless at his side, as nothing was able to soothe him. 

He remembered chanting, “he is dead, he is dead, he is dead, he must be dead,” and was sure that come the dawn of the sun, the name on his arm would be gone. It had not, but the color had faded into the light shadow of the name that remained there now.

He had only been a mere ten and two years of age at the time, not yet able to read the strange writing on his arm. It was not until his father returned from his raids from Rome that summer, that he had gripped his arm and frowned, “It is written in Latin.”

Sometimes the tattoos were words, other times they were mere symbols or pictures. There was no limit to how the Gods chose to enlighten you to your soulmate's identity.

“A fucking Roman?” Agron had asked, panicked. His father had tutted softly, running a gentle calloused thumb over his wrist. “This is no Roman name. It translates to ‘Na-zeer’,” he had said, his voice awkward around the foreign sound of the name. "It sounds Syrian, or perhaps Phoenecian.“

"Nasir,” Agron breathed as he stared down at his arm.

Agron was jolted out of this memory by a loud snore from Donar. He frowned, glaring at faded name on his arm. It did no good to linger on such thoughts. What good was a fucking name the Gods burdened you with? It did not do Agron any good when a foreign tribe had burned his village to fucking ground, slitting his fathers throat and stealing his mother, never to be seen again. And what good had it done Agron those nights he had spent staring at it, hungry, cold, and alone in the forest as he watched over his brother shivering next to him? What good had it done some five years past when his brother woke up screaming, the name on his arm gone? What good had it done when Agron held Duro’s lifeless body in his arms?

Agron clutched his arm to chest, teeth gritted as he slid down to floor and willed himself to sleep, to forget pain and name that had plagued him. He was likely dead, or wounded beyond repair, Agron reminded himself of the faded name. Agron thought of Crixus, mad with grief at being forced apart from his soulmate. _It would be better if he was dead_ , he thought. Inexplicably Agron’s mind went to the face of the little houseslave, Tiberius, before sleep finally claimed him.

*

Tiberius paced within his small bedchamber, teeth clenched, unable to sleep. He could hear some of the Gauls still shouting, undoubtly drinking all that remained of his Dominus’s wine. _These fucking gladiators would see us all to our fucking doom_ , he thought bitterly.

“Tiberius,” Chadara called out, voice full of sleep, as she turned over on her bedroll to face her friend. “You must sleep. You do yourself no favor.”

“How can I sleep?” he sighed, sitting down on his bedroll nonetheless, his body aching from the training he had done with Spartacus that day. He was glad she was there, she had shown up that night, bedroll in hand and promptly claimed spot closest to fire. She said it was for her own protection from 'beastly gladiators' but Tiberius thought of the guard that lingered outside and thought it was more to keep eye on him than any other reason.

Tiberius had gotten honor of having his own bedchamber next to Dominus when he was promoted to personal body slave. Most nights he ended up sleeping on bedroll by Dominus’s bedside but on rare nights he was able to enjoy the peace and quiet of his own chamber, indulging himself by braiding ribbons into his hair or tracing his finger over the cuff on his arm.

“I saw you speaking with that German man,” Chadara chimed with a smirk to her lips, breaking the moments silence.

“Yes,” Tiberius said softly, not adding anymore to conversation. He traced over the letters on his arm. His skin paler around his wrist, making the dark tattoo stand out even more on his skin. A mark to match the one around his neck where collar once remained.

His Dominus, like most Romans, made all his slaves wear cuffs on their arms to prevent them from seeing soulmates name. Even though he had been but small boy at the time, he never forgot image of the black letters on his skin, memorizing the pattern. He finally had come to understand what they meant when he was first trained as a scribe. _Agron._

He traced his fingers over the reddened outline of where cuff had chafed against skin. Idly, Nasir thought of the German’s bright green eyes, they were unusual color. He wondered for a moment what colored eyes his soulmate would have before he caught himself in thought, shaking his head. It was not safe to wonder such things. It mattered not, what such a man looked like. It did not change his place in the world. Tiberius thought of the beaten young woman, Naevia, as the Gaul had called her, sent from House Batiatus to gain Dominus’ favor. He remembered how his Dominus had laughed at the frivolous cruelty of it, her crime, being with her soulmate against her Domina’s wishes.

Any other day Tiberius would have been able to turn away, accept harsh realities for what they were, but words of Spartacus and his conversation with the German echoed in his head, having struck deeper than he cared to admit. They made him ponder things better left alone. Things such as poor Naevia’s broken, beautiful face as he left her alone with Dominus. Things such as his brother screaming his name as the Roman’s dragged him out of his arms.

“—Mira says he is unattached, that he has not found his chosen,” Chadara continued her gossip, oblivious to Tiberius’s indifference.

“What? Who?” he asked, startled from his own thoughts.

“The German gladiator. Agron, Mira called him.”

*

Agron had noticed the boy trailing him all day. He had not said anything, not wanting to spook the boy and scare him off. He was already as skittish as a young colt as it was. It would appear the words he had with the boy the previous night had had positive affect.

Spartacus was pleased that afternoon while he trained the boy. He had overheard him telling the boy as much, noting his improvement with the sword. At that, the boy's eyes had darted over to where Agron stood before he looked away quickly, flush over taking his face. Agron could not help but preen at this. The boy was a pretty thing afterall. He would not complain at the idea of the boy’s full lips wrapped around his cock.

It would seem now, the boy’s loyalties would be truly put to test. Spartacus entrusting him with distracting Roman guards and sending them away. He waited, dagger gripped in hand behind the walls of villa with the others.

At Crixus’s cry, he spurred into action, ignoring the pang of disappointment in his heart as he went to take down closest Roman. Adrenaline rushed through him, the thrill of the fight over taking as he tackled Roman to ground. He growled as the Roman’s blood splattered through the air. 

Suddenly, a Roman came at him, punching him in the face making blood spray from his mouth. Time seemed to move slowly as Agron eyes connected with the boy. He was crouched to the side, unsure of what to do, eyes wide on Agron as he saw him take the blow. 

Agron’s eyes then focused beyond him, to Spartacus, back turned against Roman who was advancing with sword. Agron freed himself from Roman’s grip, stabbing dagger into his throat before shouting loud warning, “Spartacus!” He moved to throw Roman off of him, scrambling up in panic as he saw Roman advancing on Spartacus.

He stopped at the sight of Tiberius, staring in shock up at Spartacus, as he removed his sword and the Roman fell dead to the ground. Agron moved to meet them but Crixus got to them first. Agron watched them as if in a daze, the blow to his head making world spin for a moment before coming to focus on Tiberius, as Crixus slammed him against wall.

“He noted the absence of my collar! Had I not allowed him in, he would have returned with even more men,” the boy said defiantly.

He watched as Crixus relented, stepping away as Spartacus moved to clasp the boy’s shoulder, “You did well, Tiberius.”

There was a pause, before, “Nasir,” the boy said softly, looking directly at Agron, dark eyes shining. 

“My brother called me Nasir,” He clenched his jaw as he took in Agron’s reaction.

Agron nodded at him, acknowledging, an odd sense of lightness seeming to overtake him. He wondered briefly if it was the blow to his head before he was able to realize that no, it was not that. There was a tingling in his arm that made him look down to wrist. Nasir’s name was no longer faded but stood black against his skin, as it had when he was a child.

Agron could see Spartacus staring at him as he made his way to stand in front of Nasir. He reached out to gently grasp his arm, turning it over to reveal his own name written in Latin on the boy’s wrist. He sucked in his breath, heart-pounding. _It was not the blow_ , he thought as he smiled cautiously down at Nasir. _It is happiness_ , he realized as Nasir smiled shyly back at him.


End file.
